


Guilt

by Kiwikiwi591



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Not really though, Pre Reichenbach, Sad, Slight Johnlock - Freeform, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is prepared for anything in his cases, keeping himself sheltered from feelings. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How?

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I know the first chapter is short! I'm working on the next one, which will be a lot longer. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: How?

 

_No. Not this. Anything… Anything but this._

Sherlock’s hands shook as he stood in the brightly-lit underground tunnel. Much too brightly-lit, in fact; it showed the scene in awful detail.

Normally Sherlock appreciated perfect lighting at a crime scene; it allowed for no possible error in his deductions. In this case, however, he would have been happy to be given that infinitesimally small flicker of hope that he was wrong in his thinking. That what he saw was, in fact, just a trick of the lighting. There wasn’t, however, any margin of error here. He was completely sure of what he saw, and what he observed.

Sherlock peeked again at the body laying a few feet away, immediately regretting the decision. All he had done was confirm what was in the tunnel with him. He vomited on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut. He momentarily let down the carefully kept guard in his mind. The second he did, Sherlock was hit with more feeling than he could ever remember having in his life, each separate emotion stabbing like a knife.

Fury. Sadness. Disbelief. Anxiety. Panic.

Pure, unadulterated, mind-bending panic.

Sherlock began to hyperventilate. He struggled to keep his balance, leaning heavily onto a concrete pillar.

_No, must keep emotions under control._

_Must keep calm. Must keep away unconsciousness. Must keep away panic, sadness. Must keep away guilt._

_Guilt…_

Nothing could have prepared Sherlock for that. The unending waves of guilt, threatening to pull him under. He was sick again.

_No, no! Must keep self at bay! Must not be attached… Listen to advice of brother; caring is not an advantage. For once, brother is right…_

_Stop caring._

_Don’t. Get. Involved._

An odd sound could be heard from the tunnel. An awful, hurt, almost inhuman sound.

At first, Sherlock glanced at the body, the tiniest spark of hope burning in his chest. His hopes were quickly extinguished, however, when he realized that the sound wasn’t coming from that direction at all.

The sound was coming from him.

What? That wasn’t possible… This terrible sound… This emotional, almost _sobbing_ … Was coming from him.

He couldn’t quite grasp it. Sherlock had never been in a situation, not since he was a child, where his emotions were truly out of control. The last time he felt this helpless, he realized, was when he had lost Redbeard.

This didn’t help the situation at all; if anything, it made it exponentially worse. Sherlock’s well fought for balance began to fail.

_Must… Stay detached._

Not only was Sherlock drowning in a typhoon of his own emotions, he was absolutely hopeless to stop it. There was nothing in the world that could save him right now.

_Must… Keep calm._

Well, there was one thing. But this thing couldn’t possibly happen. It’d take a miracle.

Miracles don’t exist.

_Must…_

He glanced at the body once again. He felt himself fall to his knees onto the cold, stone floor.

_Keep…_

Sherlock knew what he saw.

_Self…_

He looked at the unmoving body, the blank face.

_…Awake…_

The blank, dead face of John Watson.


	2. Just Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the night had begun with an ordinary case...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I suppose this didn't end up being a fantastic amount longer than chapter 1 :v  
> I was going to combine this chapter and the next one, but as I've been getting into the next one, I feel like they're better separate. Anyway, here's chapter 2, hope you like it!

It had been an ordinary day. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, idly rosining his bow while thinking. John was on his laptop, writing up their latest case. Sherlock had actually been complaining about how utterly _boring_ this day was without a case on.

If he’d only known.

At about 7 in the evening, while the pair was finishing their rather unsatisfying dinner of Chinese takeaway, Sherlock heard a quiet buzz from the kitchen, emanating from the refrigerator.

Doorbell.

Sherlock groaned. Likely just another dull, five second case, either a love affair or something’s been stolen.

John looked over at Sherlock, sighing. “Client?”

“As always.”

John put away his food and turned off the telly. He stood and walked over to his chair, waiting.

There was a soft knocking at the door.

“H-Hello? Is this where I can find Sherlock Holmes?” came an elderly voice.

_Man. Late sixties to early seventies. Obviously in distress about something._

John got up from his chair.

“Yes, come on in, Mr…?” He asked, opening the door.

The man stepped inside. “Winchester,” he replied, “but you can call me Dan.”

Sherlock sat up, looking at the man.

_Slightly shorter than John. Bad case of tremors. Takes small, careful steps; evident of arthritis. Wears thick-lensed glasses. Shift previous age observation; early to mid seventies. Dressed in fine suit. Much too fine just to visit 221b. Either just came from work or is going there after visit here._

Dan huffed as he settled into the chair.

“Oh, it’s been such a long day…” He sighed.

_Just came from work._

_Look closer at hands, now placed on armrests. No wedding ring._

“Dan, is it?” Sherlock asked, getting up from the couch. He nodded.

“So, Dan…” Sherlock clapped his hands together. “What is it that’s been stolen?”

The man looked at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Come on now, we haven't got all day," Sherlock said.

“How did you-?”

John shook his head, knowing what was coming. “No, please don’t get him started…”

“You’re distressed, obviously. If you’re still anxious about whatever’s brought you here today, it’s something that’s happened just recently, probably this morning, since ‘it’s been such a long day’…” Sherlock began.

“Too late…” John muttered in frustration, leaning back into his chair.

“…Since the police unfortunately haven’t been investigating any murders lately, you aren’t here on behalf of the dearly departed. So that leaves only two possibilities; love affair, or a theft. Since I don’t see a wedding ring on you, that counts out a love affair. That, combined with your obviously expensive taste in clothing and accessories, tells me that something of yours, something of great value, has been stolen.”

Sherlock paused for a moment in both his speaking and his pacing to look at the other two men. As expected, Mr. Winchester looked completely dumbfounded. John, while also having a tinge of quiet amazement on his face as always, looked exasperated. Sherlock stood between them, both hands behind his back.

“Now that we’ve gotten the obvious out of the way, what was it that’s been stolen?” he asked.

Dan paused for a moment, and then stuttered, “W-Well you see, I’m a curator at an art museum not too far from here. ‘The Art Installation,’ it’s called. Beautiful place. But this morning, I reported as usual only to find that a set of Chinese vases we recently acquired at an auction had been stolen. These are priceless antiques, dating back to the early years of the Ming dynasty. Wonderful porcelain creations they are, painted beautifully…”

_Tune out the rambling; too much extra information. Still going on, adding unneeded details to the story. Possibly Lying? Tune back in._

“…I went to the security chief, obviously, and asked him to review the footage. When we looked, we found that around 3 AM, the vases were exactly where they were supposed to be. Five minutes later, however, the vases just… Vanished.”

_Suspicious. Look at face._

_Small twitches. Glances quickly to the left every few minutes. Fidgeting with fingers._

_Very suspicious._

“Vanished? What happened in those five minutes?” John asked incredulously.

“We don’t know.” He replied.

“You mean your cameras only take a shot every five minutes?” He asked.

Dan shrugged, embarrassed. “Donations have been thin lately. To try and save money on security, we only take photos once every five minutes between 1:00 and 4:30 AM.” He sighed and bowed his head.

_Obvious excuse._

“Do you have any ideas on how it might have happened?” John asked.

“See, that’s the thing,” Dan replied, “Not many people know that we lower our surveillance in the early hours. In fact, only one other person besides me knows.”

_Trying to plant the seeds of blame. Very probable that story is a cover for another intent._

“The chief of security. I tried to keep it under wraps, you see, to keep this exact thing from happening. Didn’t want thieves trying to break in while our surveillance was low. But… It didn’t work…” Dan sighed, then looked up again. He looked as though he was going to cry.

_Very good actor._

He looked directly at Sherlock now, pleading.

“Oh, please, Mr. Holmes! You’ve got to help me! I’ll lose everything if these vases aren’t found…” He begged, struggling to hold back tears.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Winchester. We’re on the case,” John said.

_Also a convincing liar._

“Did you have insurance on those vases?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry?” He replied, sniffling.

“Insurance. Surely, if you’d come across such valuable, irreplaceable vases, you’d have gotten some kind of insurance on them.” He said.

“Well, of course. I was lucky, actually; I’d just gotten the policy yesterday.” Dan replied.

“Yes, good timing on your part for sure. But you’re not here to have the vases found,” Sherlock stated, walking around the room again, “You’re here to get us after your chief of security.”

“I-I beg your pardon!?” Dan said, shocked.

“Sherlock…” John sighed.

“Not a word, John,” Sherlock said, putting up his hand. John rolled his eyes, lying back in his chair. “Now then, obviously if there’s an insurance policy, you wouldn’t be so worried about the vases. Of course you’ll want them back due to sentiment, or whatever other silly attachment people get to their possessions, but you wouldn’t be nearly this upset if they were insured. Just a simple matter of showing the evidence, that there’s nothing that you can do to regain the vases, and collect the money.”

“They’re priceless artifacts! Of course I want them back!” He replied, beginning to sound angry.

“Priceless? Obviously not, if you’ve got insurance on them. You might use that word, ‘priceless’, but everything has a value. Considering how rare these vases supposedly are, the amount insured must be huge. So again, while you might have the oh-so-tragic loss of the artifacts, the amount of money you’ll get in return will be more than enough to not only cover your own guilt, but to quiet the organization behind the museum as well. Guaranteed, the money would go to many things, like finding new ‘priceless artifacts’.” Sherlock replied.

The man was silent now, fuming. Sherlock took the opportunity to look closer.

_Face registers multiple emotions. Mostly anger, but there is a hint of another emotion behind it. Panic._

_Gotcha._

“So, where does that leave us? You, for whatever reason, want to blame the theft of the vases on your chief of security. You’ve had a quarrel with him over something… Something big, indeed, if you’re willing to have him put in prison for a long time over it…” Sherlock walked close to the man now.

“He’s found out your secret, hasn’t he, Mr. Winchester?” He whispered, a note of quiet victory in his voice.

The man sat in disbelief. All of the anger was gone now. Only panic and quiet resignation remained.

John, on the other hand, looked absolutely shocked.

“Now, Dan, can you do something for me?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes?” He replied quietly.

“Remove your left shoe.”

“What?”

“Yes, your left shoe. Sock too. I have quite a bit of leverage against you, so I would advise you to do as I say.”

Dan looked at John, dumbfounded.

John nodded at him. “Don’t test him,” he said quietly.

Dan complied, taking off his left sock and shoe.

“Now, let me see,” Sherlock said.

Dan lifted his leg enough for Sherlock to take a look at the man’s heel.

_Just as expected._

The man was tattooed with the symbol of the Black Lotus.

Sherlock set Dan’s foot down, stepping back. “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Dan sighed heavily, putting his face in his hands.

John gaped. “The Black Lotus, didn’t we get rid of them already…?”

“Not entirely. We dismantled the ring here in London, yes, but they still operated elsewhere. Probably always will. It would seem, however, that they’ve moved back in.” Sherlock replied.

Dan looked up, tears in his eyes. “I’m just an old man. I’m trying to lead a quiet life, away from who I used to be.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No use lying anymore, Mr. Winchester. It won’t work. It’s fairly obvious that you’ve been behind the recent museum thefts.” Sherlock picked up the newspaper, flipped to the cover story. _Exhibit Theft Costs Museum Foundation Millions,_ it read.

“It’s textbook, really. Buy the artifact, take out a massive insurance policy, have it ‘stolen’, collect the money, and sell the artifact to another buyer, probably far from here. It’s almost as if you’d wanted to be caught.”

Sherlock tossed his cell phone to John.

“Phone Lestrade. Let him know that we’ve found the museum thief, and that he’ll need to be taken in.”

John nodded, then began dialing. “I’d figure out where you could find a good lawyer if I was you,” he said.

Dan said nothing.

Sherlock walked back over to the couch.

_Case solved, and I didn’t even have to leave the flat._

Sherlock peeked over at the headline of the newspaper, now lying beside John’s chair.

He sighed.

_Or, maybe not._

_Dull._


	3. The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock would have never guessed the result of that night..

Sherlock sneaked quietly through the underground tunnel. He stopped, listening carefully.

_One… Two… Three voices. All male. From tone, source of voices likely to range in age from mid thirties to early forties._ _Inflection in speech suggests two of Asian descent, one English. Could be warping from shape of tunnel, as well. Will need to move closer to confirm._

A sharp whisper came from behind him.

“Sherlock,” John said, “What are we doing here?”

“Like I said, John,” Sherlock replied, “We’re here to see the new exhibit.”

He stood up and walked behind a stone column, closer to the source of the voices. John followed, ducking behind a nearby pile of bricks.

Sherlock peeked behind the column. No one was nearby.

“Ok, yeah, you keep saying that,” he said, “but you still won’t explain.”

“While I’m talking to the guards, you’re going to go and retrieve the vases. They’ll be in a large suitcase just behind some rubble,” Sherlock said, either ignoring John or oblivious to his ramblings, “think you can handle that?”

John looked confused for a moment. Then, realization hit him. He looked at Sherlock in slight disbelief.

“Wait, we’re here for the vases? The ones from _nearly a month ago?_ ” he asked incredulously.

“I would think that would be obvious at this point, _since I repeatedly said that._ Now, _can you do this?_ ” Sherlock replied impatiently.

John sighed in frustration. After a moment, he nodded.

“Keep your gun ready.” Sherlock said, and moved forward.

\--

Sherlock studied the scene just behind another pile of stone. John was close behind, waiting.

_Circular barricade built up. Several piles of stone rubble and sandbags, probably anticipation to gunfire. Much thicker piles of rubble and sandbags together towards the back; likely location of vases. Lonely fire in center appears to be burning papers._

_Previous assumptions about guards correct. Guards range in height from 5’ 6” to 6’ 2”. Tallest pacing near the back, smoking cigarette. Make note to find remaining cigarettes before leaving. Middle height guard standing off to the right side. Unusually stiff; probably oldest of the three. Shortest standing beside fire; sitting down now._

“What’s the big deal about these vases, then?” the shortest man said as he sat down, “they’re just like the others. Why the special treatment?”  
  
“Because,” the middle height guard replied, “These vases in particular belong to a very wealthy man. These aren’t for sale; they’re for ransom.”  
  
The short guard let out a laugh. “Vases. For ransom. Maybe we should’ve grabbed a couple of plates while we were there, held the whole family hostage.”  
  
The taller man laughed, while the final guard huffed. “Yes, yes, it’s all very funny. But it’d be wise to treat these like a hostage. It won’t be good for us if anything happens to them.”  
  
Sherlock looked back. John looked slightly anxious, ready to go into action if needed.

“Just as planned,” He whispered. John nodded, and began to slowly work his way towards the back.

Sherlock stood up, gun tucked behind his back.   
  
“Yes, not very good at all.” He said. The guards whipped around to look at him, two quickly pulling their guns.  
  
“Oh, don’t be so clichéd,” Sherlock sighed, slowly pacing closer, “pulling out your gun and killing the intruder before they can speak? How boring.”  
  
“Who are you and how did you get down here?” The middle one asked, readying his gun.  
  
“Oh, just a visitor, come to see the antiques… As for how I got down here, I just followed the trail. It’s not very smart to wear muddy shoes when pulling off a heist, you know.”  
  
The man looked at the shorter one, who was currently staring at his boots. They were, in fact, caked in mud. The taller man slapped the other across the face.  
  
“You _idiot!_ You didn’t check your bloody shoes before we came down here?” He yelled.  
  
Sherlock quickly glanced behind the men. John had grabbed the briefcase and was quietly working his way back.  
  
“Well it’s not my fault it began to rain before we came down here! What was I supposed to do, go grab some new shoes from the shop?” The man argued.  
  
The taller man glared at him, then turned back to Sherlock.  
  
“Well, _sir_ , the museum is closed. Now you’ve seen the vases, and well, we can’t just let you leave,” he said, finger on the trigger.  
  
“Oh I should think not. Can’t have me spoiling the new exhibits, can you?” Sherlock raised his arms. He gave a small smile. “See, there’s only one problem with that… It would look as though you don’t have them anymore.”  
  
The shorter guard turned to look towards the back. He quickly ran over, searching where the cases should have been. The taller guard was still standing in shock, his gun at his side.  
  
“… And because you’ve lost such priceless antiques, it would appear that your position has been… Terminated.” Sherlock finished.

And with that, Sherlock fired at the guard standing to the side. The man had been oddly silent the whole time, only speaking once; that one time was enough, however, for it to become obvious that he was talking through a speaker. The tallest guard wasn’t a man at all, but actually a dummy rigged with a gun inside. Presumably, the person speaking through the dummy also controlled the gun. Probably someone of higher rank than the other two guards, meant to keep them in line. Sherlock calculated the approximate location of the gun’s wiring, and shot accordingly. Just as planned, the dummy fired a single bullet.

Sherlock’s mind studied the scene carefully as things were set into motion.

_Bullet fired. Hit shorter guard, who’d walked away. Injuries shouldn’t be fatal at trajectory; just enough to incapacitate. Will call ambulance along with police, regardless. Taller guard dropped cigarette and gun and ran._   _Will remember to grab both before leaving._ _Looks back at scene. Face shows shock, panic, confusion… And victory?_

Sherlock barely began to register his own confusion when he was hit sharply over the head with what appeared to be the suitcase. He quickly went down.

“John-?” He said, confused.

_Head spinning. Push pain away; not bleeding, injury can be tucked away for later. Blink a few times. John is running away, flips light switch. Doesn’t make any sense; possibly thought I was one of the guards? Will need to confront him later about his recognition skills.  
_

Sherlock stared after him along with the other guard running away… And noticed something.

_Mud prints._

Sherlock sat up quickly, head still spinning. He slowly blinked, bringing the world into focus again. He stared at the floor.

_Mud prints. Same as trail followed into tunnel._

Sherlock looked up at the man running away. That wasn’t John.

_Somehow confused shorter guard with John. Stupid, stupid, stupid... Error could have been caused by low visibility. Will train left eye for darkness to avoid future mistakes. Scratch previous plans to confront John.  
_

He stood up, sighing. Suddenly, realization hit him.

_Where_ is _John?_

Sherlock looked over at the man on the ground.

_No._ _Impossible._

The tunnel was brightly-lit now. There was no mistaking what he saw.

_No!_

He quickly ran over, dropping his own gun in the process. John was lying on the ground. Sherlock felt the first tinges of panic, but pushed it down. The gun would not have fatally wounded him.

_Bullet should not wound in any serious way at all, was aimed for arm. Will have to deal with complaints from John as wound heals- …Oh._

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He carefully pushed one half of John’s coat away with his now shaking hands. Just below the ribs, on John’s left side, was a slowly-growing blood stain.

Sherlock had not only somehow mistaken John for the shorter guard, but had also miscalculated the trajectory of the bullet. How could he have been so stupid?

Sherlock felt sick. He closed his eyes, breathing deep in an attempt to calm himself down. He opened them again and looked over at John’s face.

He would have done anything to be able to forget what he saw. To be able to delete the image from his mind. The face of his one and only friend after he’d just shot him.

John’s eyes were sightless.

\--

The memory of John’s face shocked Sherlock out of his mind palace. Putting himself into it was meant to both keep away unconsciousness and give him any insight into solidifying John’s slim chances; it had only done one of those things. Sherlock glanced at his phone, barely able to hold it with his shaking hands. It had been 3 minutes since he’d called the ambulance. It would be here in 3 more.

Sherlock forced himself to look at John again.

_Injury occurred about 5 minutes ago. Bullet was of small caliber; less lethal. Entry wound suggests a trajectory; Bullet likely grazed lung. Not enough to severely damage the organ, but it combined with surrounding tissue damage would still cause massive blood loss._

Even though Sherlock knew it was his only chance, it hurt to think of John this way. As just another victim in one of his cases. But really, wasn’t that what he was now? A casualty?

His breath caught in his throat again.

_At time of shooting, survival rate around 76%. Victim is still alive, but pulse is very faint and rapid; confirms suspicions of internal trauma. Current survival rate about 21%. Immediate medical attention will be required within 12 minutes. After 15 minutes, victim will die._

**_Victim will die after 15 minutes._ **

The thought burned in Sherlock’s mind, pushing everything else out of existence. How could that be possible? In 15 minutes, no, less than that, he would be without John. Forever.

**_No chance after 15 minutes._ **

John would more than likely die before any help could reach the underground tunnel. Even if the ambulance arrived within the expected two minutes, John would still require emergency treatment, and likely surgery, within another ten. These were nearly impossible odds.

**_15 minutes._ **

John was going to die. It was his fault. Sherlock had killed John.

**_14 minutes._ **

Sherlock felt unconsciousness seeping in again. He didn’t try to stop it.

**_13 minutes._ **

His head hit the ground. He could hear sirens approaching the tunnel just before he blacked out.

**_…_ **


	4. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up in the hospital.

Sherlock squinted against the much-too-bright light as he slowly came into consciousness again. His head was absolutely throbbing, making his thinking sluggish. He groaned in frustration.

He didn’t like not being able to think.

After a couple more moments, he opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the brightness. His eyes roamed about the room slowly, taking everything in.

_Flourescent lights. Mint green walls, white trim. Telly on cart against opposite wall, turned off. One wall has door leading into building. Opposite wall is filled with large windows, currently covered by blinds. Two uncomfortable-looking chairs angled against wall. Last wall has very uncomfortable bed sitting against it._

_Hospital room._

He looked down at himself.

_Wearing normal clothes, minus coat. Covered in starchy, stiff hospital blanket. Shock blanket bundled up and shoved at the end of the bed. Shock blanket?_

Sherlock, suddenly realizing that his memory was incomplete, struggled to remember what had happened before he had obviously fallen unconscious. Perhaps he’d gotten injured on a case? No, he’d remember that.He looked again at the end of the bed.

_Shock blanket was probably for self, since it’s still nearby. Events of the previous night were traumatic enough to warrant a blanket from medical staff and a trip to the hospital. Said events have mysteriously been deleted from memory._

He searched his mind palace, or what he could access of it in his still groggy state, for any clues as to what happened that night. Without any direction however, the trip boiled down to aimless wondering. Sherlock closed his eyes, getting to work.

This was going to take a while.

\--

Sherlock wandered the empty streets of London. Any unnecessary people just added clutter and made it more difficult to make it to the eventual destination. Glancing around, he appeared to be not too far from 221b; a good place to start.

Stepping into the familiar front room of his flat, Sherlock looked around. His version of 221b was much more cluttered than the real one; stacks of files, papers, books, and various other odds and ends were all over the place. Mrs. Hudson would never allow it to get this way. Regardless, he quickly searched the stack of unfiled cases, and found the latest one, set neatly on the top just as it should be. Sherlock opened up the file and began to read.

Stolen Ming Vases

  *          Dan Winchester, curator of ‘The Art Installation’.



o   Member of the Black Lotus.

o   Acquired vases, set up a ‘theft’ to collect insurance money.

o   Was arrested by Lestrade; currently facing charges of Fraud.

o   Being further investigated for previous museum thefts; possible future case.

  *          Stolen Vases



o   Valuable antiques. Worth unknown, but likely in the millions.

o   Real, not faked. Can tell from brush strokes; very specialized style no longer practiced in the world.

o   If possible, track vases’ locations; could lead to Black Lotus splinter cell.

o   Will acquire at hiding place. Likely under guard.

  *          Zhi Mu



o   Another Black Lotus member; likely to be guarding vases.

o   Will get homeless network on tracking him; seems to leave a trail wherever he goes.

o   Although unintelligent, seems to be quick with a gun. Proceed with caution.

This wasn’t helping at all. Sherlock sighed in frustration and flipped to the last page.

  *          Location of vases



o   Vases are in an underground tunnel, currently closed off for construction.

o   Pursuit of vases reveals three guards; one confirmed to be Zhi. Left mud trail leading inside.

o   Plan to acquire vases made with-

 

The file cut off abruptly. Sherlock squinted at the paper. It looked as though it had been torn at the corner, cut off specifically at that point.

Something had been deleted, and quickly. Obviously the events of the case had been more traumatic than first guessed.

Sherlock was slightly unsettled by this notion, but tucked the feeling away. It would be a simple matter to find the memory again; he always left a trigger when deleting just in case the information suddenly became useful.

He looked around, trying to think where he’d have put a trigger for a deleted case.

_Ah, of course._

He strode over into the kitchen, filled with various chemistry books and formulas, and found the trash bin. He opened the lid, looked inside, and-

It was empty.

He turned around, confused. Where else could it be?

He walked over to the bookshelf, searching the loose-leaf papers pile. Nothing.

He looked on the desk. Nothing.

Nothing pinned to the walls.

Nothing hanging on the window.

Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock began to get a bit apprehensive. What in the world was so awful that he had deleted it without a trace? Even the worst cases, the ones that involved torture and maggots and beheadings, they always were left somewhere… But the rest of this case had been absolutely obliterated. Destroyed from memory. He looked around, catching a glance at John’s chair-

Oh.

_Oh God._

Sherlock gasped sharply as all the memories rushed back.

\--

_Just woken up. Lestrade is saying name._

_”Sherlock. Sherlock!” he said, shaking his shoulders._

_Blink. Sit up slowly. Look up at Lestrade. Panic and guilt grips self, makes it difficult to breathe._

_“Sherlock, stay with me,” Lestrade says, gripping shoulders and staring intensely at Sherlock. “What happened?”_

_Emotion renders speech impossible. Look around quickly; see ambulance, police car, two unrecognized police officers, three EMT’s loading someone onto a stretcher._

_John. **JOHN.**_

_Feel self jump up, begin to run. Lestrade protests, says to sit down. Obviously not thinking clearly._

_Run over to stretcher, despite protests of EMT’s. See John. See his bloody chest and hand. See his face, with eyes glazed over with death and a frozen expression of shock._

_Vomit on ground._

\--

Sherlock reels, collapsing onto the carpet. He’s hyperventilating. The room begins shaking, his trance destabilizing. Is it possible to go into shock while he’s in his own mind?

\--

_Hit cold stone again. Sit on knees. Unable to think. Sadness, panic, and guilt still grip chest, temporarily making breathing impossible. Shaking. Blackness threatens again; must stay awake. Through haze in mind, recognize signs of shock._

_“Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down!” Lestrade says, suddenly nearby again._

_Calm? Calm doesn’t exist anymore._

_Killed John. Don’t deserve calm, happiness…. Don’t deserve anything anymore._

_“I think he’s going into shock, do something!” Lestrade yells, suddenly sounding far away._

_Can’t think. Mind not working. Gone all fuzzy._

_He feels something draped onto his shoulders, a breathing mask being applied._

_“We’re just going to try and calm him down,” comes a voice from far away._

_Look towards ambulance._

_Feet move on their own. Going towards ambulance?_

_“That’s it, nice and easy,” the far-away voice says._

_Stepping into ambulance. Sitting on floor. Back doors shut. Feel ambulance move. Don’t look at stretcher short distance away._

_Don’t look._

_Don’t look._

_Don’t look._

_Look._

_Suddenly find voice._

\--

“John!” Sherlock yells, the sound echoing off of the walls. He’s breathing hard now, unable to keep himself from the panic anymore. He looks around, searching desperately for more clues before realizing he’s not in his mind palace anymore.

Lestrade is now sitting in one of the chairs, looking shocked at Sherlock’s sudden scream.

“Well, that’s one way to wake up,” he said, leaning forward in the chair. “Had us scared there for a while. You’ve been out for almost 24 hours now.”

Sherlock was still hyperventilating, barely able to process Lestrade’s words. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to calm himself enough to form words. He swallowed, trying to fix his dry throat.

“John,” he finally choked out, “is John alright?”

Lestrade sat in silence, seemingly searching for words. Sherlock squinted at him.

_Pain. Empathy. Sadness._

“ _Greg,”_ he said.

Lestrade looked up, attention caught by the correct name.

“ _Is John alright?”_ Sherlock repeated emphatically.

Lestrade sighed, looking down for a moment. Then, he looked back to Sherlock.

“He’s in surgery right now. He’ll be out in about an hour and a half. The doctors said that the bullet didn’t puncture his lung, but came close enough to cause some damage to the bottom. They’re removing the bullet and fixing up the inside of his chest…” he said.

_But…?_

“…But, it was a while before he actually made it to the hospital for treatment. At this point… We can only hope for the best.” He finished, looking at Sherlock with sympathy.

Even if it was expected, this was not what he wanted to hear. Sherlock buried his face in his knees, a sad moan escaping without his permission. He could feel Lestrade’s stare.

“…My fault,” Sherlock said quietly after a few minutes.

“Sorry?” Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock looked up. “My fault. I was the one who shot John,” he said, his voice choked with pain.

Lestrade gaped.

“Not on purpose. Was a miscalculation. Stupid. Idiot. Imbecile, not clever, not deserving-“

“Stop,” Lestrade said.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock listened.

He paused a moment, then said, “Listen. Obviously, it was an accident. You can’t beat yourself up because of an accident. John’s a tough man. He’ll pull through.”

_Obviously lying to keep from hurting feelings. Didn’t work._

Sherlock said nothing.

An awkward silence stretched between them.

Lestrade sighed, getting up. “Look, I’ll go talk to one of the nurses. See how things are going. I’ll be back later,” he said.

Still, Sherlock said nothing.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Lestrade left, closing the door behind him.

\--

Exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes later, Lestrade came back just as promised.

Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle.

“He’s out of surgery now,” Lestrade said, “He’s not conscious, but you can come up to his room if you like.”

Sherlock got up slowly.

_Why bother? It’ll only hurt more to see the aftermath of your stupidity._

And yet, Sherlock walked alongside Lestrade down the hospital hallway.

\--

They stopped outside of the door. After about ten minutes of waiting, a doctor walked out, giving the two men permission to enter.

“I’ll let you have a minute,” Lestrade said, opening the door for Sherlock. He walked in dutifully.

The door shut behind him as Sherlock took in the room.

_Same wallpaper and trim as own room. No telly in here; no one’s used this room in a while. The curtains are open, but the scene outside is dark. Has been exactly 24 hours and 28 minutes since hospital check in. Various equipment around bed and the body lying in it._

Sherlock allows himself to look at John directly, finally.

_Face no longer shows shock. Features are softened; looks rather peaceful, like he’s asleep. Cleaned up, free of blood, but bruised a bit, likely from hitting the concrete. Arms are placed at sides on top of sheets._

Sherlock slowly paces closer. As he gets close, Sherlock notices something.

John is breathing. The heart monitor gives a steady rhythm of beeps.

Sherlock flops into the chair beside John’s bed.

The monitor beeps.

_John._

Sherlock carefully places his hand on John’s arm, suddenly needing to make sure he was real, that this wasn’t all just an illusion in Sherlock’s guilt-ridden mind. Sherlock could touch him.

_He’s alive._

John shifts a bit, likely from Sherlock’s cool touch. Sherlock watches him slowly awaken from the anesthetic.

He blinks once. Twice. Sherlock watches as John’s world slowly comes into focus.

John looks over at Sherlock.

“Sherlock…?” He asks, groggily.

Sherlock’s vision has started to go fuzzy around the edges. He lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

_John is alive. You didn’t kill him. Your stupid, stupid, accident didn’t kill him._

“…Sherlock?” John asks again, this time with concern.

_He’s alive. Your best friend is alive. You didn’t destroy him, one of the only things that keep you sane. The only thing that keeps you away from drugs, the only one who will go on even the most difficult and dangerous of cases._

“Sherlock, are you alright?” he asks quietly.

_Alright? This is more than alright. This is crimes and murders, serial suicides and Christmas, the violin and the skull, being clever and showing off to the world… This is everything. Everything is back in order, because John Watson is alive._

_You didn’t kill John Watson._

Wet. There’s something wet on Sherlock’s hand. He looks down, confused, but doesn’t take his hand away. Using his free hand, he touches his own face. The same wetness.

Sherlock is crying.

John just sits in silence, looking at Sherlock with disbelief and concern all at once.

Sherlock would have made a comment on how John should be worrying about his own condition, considering that he just woke up from a rather serious surgery, but all he can think is how shocked he is with himself.

Sherlock has never outwardly shown his emotion in this way, no matter how turbulent things may be inside. He’s always able to bottle it up, come up with some snide remark to cover his tracks. But he can’t contain himself now, because _Sherlock did not kill his best friend. John is **alive.**_

_Against impossible odds, he is alive._

After a few quiet moments and a couple more teardrops, John is the first to speak.

“Sherlock…” he says, voice as full of concern as his face.

“I… I never meant to… I thought you were…” Sherlock stammered, unable to put his feelings into words.

“I…”

_…Never thought I would be able to speak to you again._

“I…”

_…Thought that I’d done the unforgivable._

“I…”

_…Felt like my world had collapsed._

John set his free hand on Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock. It’s alright. I was an army doctor, remember? I’ve been through worse,” he said, giving a small smile.

Sherlock was absolutely stunned. For once, he was without any words whatsoever.

John was in pain, and yet he still made himself smile for Sherlock. John had been shot in the chest, and yet he was still concerned for Sherlock.

He couldn’t understand it.

“…Although, you’ll have to give me a break for a while,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t understand at first. A break? From what? And then it hit him.

John had forgiven him, just like that. No fights, no agonizing, no gentle explanations of why he was leaving 221b. John was going to heal, and then go straight back to business.

That was impossible.

Sherlock looked at John, confused. “You… You’ll come back?” he said.

It was John’s turn to look confused. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock felt light-headed. He really _had_ forgiven him. He was already cracking jokes and smiling, not caring that Sherlock had _almost_ _killed him._

“ …I’ll just need a while before I can go running through London with you again. No use getting ripped stitch-“

He was interrupted by Sherlock collapsing onto his chest, his limbs carefully placed to avoid touching the bandage.

Sherlock couldn’t hold it in anymore. He gave into quiet weeping, not out of guilt or sadness as before, but out of pure joy. He wouldn’t have to go back to the way things were before John.

John sat motionless, not completely sure what to do. Eventually, he laid his arm on Sherlock’s back.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“…You’re welcome,” John replied.

The pair stayed that way for a long time, and even when Sherlock had to get up to allow room for the doctors, the smile stayed on his face.

John smiled at him back.

“Might want to work on your aim, though,” John said jokingly.

Sherlock just continued to smile, just from knowing that John wasn’t leaving.

He would never be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, my first fanfic. I hope you guys liked reading it as much as I loved writing it!


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